The Yellowed Wood
by chrissie0707
Summary: Missing scenes for 8X01 "We Need to Talk About Kevin." He's been gone more than a year, according to the newspaper he'd swiped from the motel manager's office. Sam could be…No. He won't even entertain the thought. Won't give up on his brother. Sam certainly wouldn't give up on him. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**The Yellowed Wood**

 _Chapter One_

* * *

He locks the door, bolts it. Lets the pack fall from his shoulder to the floor and drags a stolen salt canister from his pocket. Dropping into a crouch with a protest from his stiff knees and swollen right ankle, he pops the top and upends the container along the threshold, rises with a wince and lays a second line on the sill of the picture window. Establishing a stronghold before he even searches out a light switch.

The switch makes a forgotten, foreign _click,_ and a soft glow illuminates the small, Spartan motel room. He'd been looking for cheap, but honestly would have settled for _not outside._ His eyes go to the darkest corners first, and he crosses the room with limping but business-like steps, leads with his empty pistol clutched like a club as he flips on the light in the small bathroom.

He finds the room empty, and the gun slips from his suddenly lax fingers, _thunks_ to the thin carpet.

He's alone.

Dean stumbles backward until his back connects with a wall and he sags against it, runs a hand down his dirty face.

He's out.

He really made it out.

He swallows back a choke of emotion, won't allow it to break free. But then he drops his hand away, and the sight of the single bed in the room tears a hole right through him; a sudden, intense longing for his little brother by his side, for the assurance that Sammy is _safe_.

The very fact it took Dean so long to break free of that place, and that his brother wasn't there to meet him when he got out…it's anything but reassuring. But if Sammy's well and able, he's out there right now, chasing leads and doing _everything_ he can to right this.

The thought makes Dean feel a little less alone.

He works the cell phone free of his pocket, hits 'redial' on a number he's already tried a dozen times since he found the device in the hiker's bag. He'd made a promise to Benny that he intends to make good on, but he needs to hear from his little brother before he can move forward. His compass can't work without knowing where Sammy is. That he's _okay._

" _This is Sam…_ "

Dean lets the back of his head smack against the wall, fingers tightening around the phone's plastic casing. He swallows. "Tell me you're gettin' these messages, man. I'm in, uh…" His eyes scour the room, land on a notepad atop the bedside table. "Millinocket. Maine. Pamola Motor Lodge, room 4. Call me at this number." Leaves a variation of the same message on Sam's other numbers.

The phone falls to the floor as soon as Dean disconnects the last call, adding to the trail of discarded items now littering the motel room. His hands go to his face and scrub at his tired, sensitive eyes. These first few hours have been a confusing, exhausting mishmash of new, hard-learned instincts he can't immediately shake and all of the older, more ingrained things he can't quite remember right.

Dean's fingers stumble over bruises, feel out dried mud and blood, and his gaze ticks over to the bathroom. To the shower, which suddenly seems like the most beautiful thing he's ever laid eyes on. He pushes away from the wall and limps a slow, shaky course into the small room. He's been riding a hell of an adrenaline rush for a while now, and there's no denying that he's crashing. Hard. Fast.

He reaches behind the flowery vinyl shower curtain and cranks the hot water, then falls back in a lean against the counter, waits for steam to fill the small bathroom before making a move on any of his ripe-smelling clothing.

His boots seem fused to his feet, and his wrenched ankle makes the process of removing them a real _bitch._ It's gonna take a lot of time to get them clean again; Dean's pretty sure they could walk out of the room on their own. He kicks them off carefully, nudges them with the foot that isn't throbbing into a muddy pile in the corner.

The jacket takes some effort to work free of his sore, stiff shoulders, and a fiery pain flares in his left forearm, like he's somehow forgotten about his passenger, any more than he's forgotten that they didn't all make it out.

"Keep it down in there," Dean orders hoarsely through clenched teeth, folding over and cupping his right palm over the burning spot.

The fire recedes to a more manageable – but still plenty uncomfortable – ache, and he straightens, dropping his ruined jacket on top of the boots.

He'd never intended for the coat to replace what he'd lost; nothing could. But it now represents and holds the memories of something – of _someplace_ – he never imagined ending up, let alone _surviving_. The brown leather has been scuffed, has been cut, slashed and clawed, stained with mud and smeared with blood. Not all of it his, but a good deal. Enough.

The odor clinging to the material is…interesting. Sweat, dirt and blood. _Death_. It's a battlefield stench, calling to mind long days and longer nights, fights to the death and that one time, early on, when he didn't think he had it in him to fight anymore.

It won't be difficult to part with, to leave behind.

Dean strips off his button-down next, the shirt decorated with a few matching tears and bloodstains, and adds it to the pile. He hisses as his charcoal t-shirt catches on a scab on his right shoulder blade – a vicious strike from razor-sharp claws that had easily penetrated three layers of clothing. He grits his teeth and rips the cotton free of the wound, collapsing on a palm against the counter while he waits for the angry twinge to abate. When this pain, too, is manageable, he then raises a shaky hand to wipe away the condensation gathering on the mirror, and immediately recoils.

It's the first real look Dean's gotten of himself since he was spit out of that portal, and it's a shock.

Beneath an unkempt scruff of beard his cheeks are hollow, eyes sunken and bruised in his dirt-streaked, sunburned face. There's a bloody slice along his jaw, and a wide scrape on his forehead, leaving a trail of crimson to stain his eyebrow. He rotates a bit, eyes catching sight of a line of blood running down his back from the reopened wound on his shoulder, and bruises on top of bruises. In various stages of healing and coloring most of his chest and side, yellow and black and every shade between.

Dean hardly recognizes himself. He looks like someone you'd run away from if you had the misfortune of crossing paths.

There exists a level of self-preservation that kicks in when fear wins out over concern and wariness, and Dean has to figure – even keeping to backroads and shadow – that's how he got all the way from the woods to this motel room without cops and cuffs and questions.

The slick feel of the bathtub is an alien sensation under his overworked feet, and hell on his ankle. Dean flattens his palms against the tiles and stands under the hot water, letting the steamy spray scour away most of the blood and dirt and stink, until it runs completely out. By then, he can't really _feel_ the impact of the droplets against his skin, just drops his chin and watches the grimy residue swirl around the drain and his scalded, lobster-red feet.

He's been gone more than a year, according to the newspaper he'd swiped from the motel manager's office. It was May, he thinks, when they stormed Roman Enterprises. When he left his baby in the hands of a demon who once tried to put a hand through him. Sam could be…

 _No_.

He won't even entertain the thought. Won't give up on his brother. Sam certainly wouldn't give up on him.

Dean scrubs what's left of the dirt with cold water and the sliver of motel bar soap. It's not even uncomfortable. The soap is a new experience, though. Or, an old one.

With a thin towel around his waist he goes back to the sink and inspects his fresher wounds. They're clean of dirt but he doesn't have anything in the way of antiseptic or bandages. It's mostly superficial damage, anyway; bruises and shallows scratches that shouldn't even scar, but there's a deeper gouge across his ribs being pulled and aggravated with even the smallest of movements, and at least one cracked bone beneath. Another in his left hand, and he uses his teeth to tear free the sleeve of a white t-shirt to tightly wrap and stabilize the break. He'll get some ice from the machine outside for his ankle.

He's never had much but his meager possessions are now limited to the contents of a swiped hiker's backpack, from which he's already liberated a cell phone, wallet and change of clothes. A pair of jeans that looked small but fit his now-leaner frame just fine, and a warm blue-checked flannel that he drags on immediately, to fight off the chill hanging in the room despite the heater running. He dumps everything else atop the bedspread, swipes what he won't find use for to the floor.

Dean's left with a handful of granola bars, book of matches, a small first aid kit and two knives – a Swiss Army switchblade and cheapish Marine knife. He sends the fingers of his left hand on a cursory examination of the gash on his shoulder and they come away only minimally spotted with blood, so he sets the first aid kit aside. He also finds a map of Baxter State Park, so at least he's got an idea of where he's coming from, even if he's not yet sure where he's going.

His stomach growls low and painful at the sight of the granola bars, and he wolfs them down, follows them with two full glasses of water from the tap. He's still chilled but no longer starving, and a blink turns into a near face-plant onto the bedspread as his exhaustion refuses to be held at bay for another moment.

Dean clears away the mess from the pack but stands beside the bed for a while, doesn't once glance at the clock but knows exactly how much time passes, counting it off on his own breaths. He stares down at the pillows and linens, reaches out and tests the mattress with two fingers, then the flat of his hand, thinking he might sink straight through to the floor. Ends up on the floor anyway, but drags down a pillow, a blanket. Cocoons himself in strange-feeling softness and can't get comfortable, even on the hard floor.

He can't get warm, either, and can't unhear the sounds that have followed him out of Purgatory. Can't block out the noises seeping in through cracks and openings in the door and window. Cars on the freeway, crickets, wind in the trees. Everything new and startling, but not.

It's not long before Dean gives up trying to sleep, despite the fact he's so bone-weary he could cry. He just lies there in the dark, listening. Tense as a board. Alone, and waiting for an attack.

* * *

The shrill sound brings him wide awake, bolting upright and swinging the Marine knife in a wild arc over his head.

Heart hammering in his chest, Dean's wide eyes search the immediate area, and it takes a few blinks to make sense of his surroundings – four walls, carpet. Ceiling. _Motel_ _room_. Not Purgatory. Sunlight streams into the room through a gap in the gray curtains, but if his pounding, spinning head is any indication, he hasn't slept long.

The sound cuts out, and after a brief moment of silence, starts up again.

A phone, ringing.

Dean stares down at the cell phone, on the carpet next to his right leg, and his thundering heart just _stops._ He drops the knife to the side and presses a button, raises the phone to his ear. "Sam?"

" _Dean!"_

"Sammy?"

" _Dean, thank God. I was in a dead zone, looking for…I just got back to the car, got all of your messages."_

A car door shuts with a _creak_ , and Dean smiles at the sound.

" _How did you – where are you?"_ Sam's voice is an unsteady, panicked godsend, and his words trip over one another.

Dean can't honestly remember where he is, only where he was. "Purgatory," he whispers, voice catching as he says it aloud for the first time.

Sam sucks in a breath. When his brother speaks again, his words have lost the shaky edge of panic. Taking the lead. _"I know, man. I know. I've been…I've been looking all over for you, for...for a while. You said you're in Maine, right? Millinocket? I'm right nearby, Dean, chasing a lead in Baxter State Park."_

The name strikes him, and Dean shoves the covers down and kicks them away from his legs, finds his knees and then his feet, stumble-limps across the room to the discarded backpack and items. And doesn't feel a single pain in his body as he does so, just grounds himself in his brother's voice.

" _Dean?"_

"Yeah, I'm here. I just…" He finds the map, studies the cover. "That's where I came out."

" _No shit."_ The shake is back in Sam's voice.

"Last night, somewhere in the middle of the woods, 'bout…" Dean drags a trembling hand down his face, overwhelmed by emotion and information. "I don't even know, man."

" _S'all right, Dean. Just – just hang tight, okay? Just don't move. I'll be there in fifteen minutes, man. Twenty, tops. Son of a bitch."_

There's tangible relief in Sam's voice now, and he talks to Dean the entire way, without expecting a single word of response. He rambles on and on about busted leads and dead ends, and he laughs unsteadily as he recounts a time he almost hit a dog with the Impala, swerved out of the way just in the nick of time.

* * *

 _To be continued..._

* * *

 _Author Notes: Sneak attack AU! I've been trying to write this post-Purgatory story - well, not THIS particular story - for a few months now, and it wasn't clicking. This one's for you, Ncakes; you offered an idea and an approach that just made it HAPPEN._


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Yeah, so this is happening. Not sure how far I'll be taking this, but I promise not to overstay my welcome._

* * *

 **The Yellowed Wood**

 _Chapter Two_

* * *

Sam may never have said it out loud but even growing up, the deep rumble of the Impala had always made him feel secure, and comforted. But for his older brother, the car has been _everything_. She's meant home, and sanctuary, and family. She's always been there for Dean when he's had nothing else. Even when he didn't have Dad, or Sam.

So when the low, throaty purr of the Impala's engine doesn't draw his brother outside, Sam knows immediately there's a level of significance and concern he should assign to such a phenomenon. But that's a worry for later, because right now he's just trying to wrap his head around the fact that Dean is _here_. Room four, just a short walk – just a _sidewalk_ away.

"I'm here, man," he says into the phone, voice hoarse from recent overuse and the lump that's lodged in his throat. "I'll be right in. Okay?"

A few short, controlled breaths on the other end of the call, and then an incredibly tight and equally controlled, _"Yeah, okay."_

Sam cuts the engine, palms the key ring but doesn't yet move to exit the car. His heart is hammering wildly against his ribs and he's suddenly nervous and unsure in a way that he _knows_ is irrational. This is his _big brother_ , a man he's literally known all his life, who's spent years protecting him, teaching him, _raising_ him. It's not like that man – that _brother_ – is going to suddenly be so gun-shy that he turns Sam away the very moment he has him back.

He takes a deep breath and finally opens the car door with a _creak_ , setting his boot sole atop the cracked pavement. He crosses the small parking lot with increasingly slowing steps, until he comes to a complete pause a mere foot away from the door, hand raised to knock but frozen in midair.

Dean's been missing for almost a year and a half. Sixteen months, to be exact. Sixteen months since they stormed Roman Enterprises. Seventy-two weeks since his brother shoved a stake through Dick's throat, and five hundred and seven days since both Dean and Cas disappeared in an explosion of black goo, and Sam lost _everything_.

 _You want to know your future? It's covered in thick, black ooze._ The last words Chronos said to them or anyone. Words that ended up holding more meaning and weight than they'd thought at the time.

After Dean disappeared and Crowley took off with the kid, Sam searched _everywhere_ for his brother. He started hunting down stray Leviathan in hopes they'd have an answer, but without their leader they seemed to have scattered into the four winds, and tracking them became more and more difficult. The few he managed to get his hands around had nothing of use to offer, and soon followed Dick Roman into death. Then the Leviathan lead ran cold.

It wasn't long before his phone rang and it was Kevin Tran on the other end, breathless and harried and paranoid as hell. The kid had managed to give Crowley the slip and was on the run, and Sam wasted no time in scooping him up, tucking him safely away within the heavily-warded confines of Rufus' cabin. Because he's not just a prophet, but their responsibility. His and Dean's. Together, they'd been able to figure out where Dean was, and it had seemed, finally, like all of the dominos were lined up to fall in his favor.

The he hit his first dead end. Then another. And another, and another, until he'd burned through all of his contacts, Dean's, Dad's, Bobby's. Until he'd cashed in every IOU he had and even a few he didn't. He was laughed at and told he was crazy, that he was grasping at straws, that he'd never find a way into purgatory and even if he did, it'd be a one-way trip and he should stop searching. But the same people said the same things about death and about Hell, and both he and Dean have been there and come back.

Sam wasn't about to give up on his brother; Dean had never _once_ given up on him.

He'd been in Baxter State Park for nearly thirty-six hours, stomping through the near-frigid woods in search of a doorway to purgatory that may or may not exist. A tip he'd gotten from – of all people – Garth, who'd apparently gotten wind of such a portal from some psychic with a spirit board. The lead was dubious, at _best_ , but when the hunter added the portal was supposedly nestled between the Brother Mountains, it felt like exactly where Sam was supposed to be.

He wasn't going to give up his search – not _ever –_ but the combination of exhaustion, hunger and rapidly falling temperatures finally drove him to return to where he'd left the car. He'd been reaching for the Impala's door handle when his cell phone chimed, announcing the arrival of voicemails he'd missed while deep in the forest. Four of them, all from the same, unknown number and, bone-weary and hardly thinking straight, he'd almost put off listening to the messages until he'd at least regained the feeling in all of his fingers.

Almost.

Sam only needed to listen to one, gaping dumbly and blurry-eyed at the foliage beyond the Impala's windshield as his brother's rough, shaky voice filtered through the phone's tiny speaker.

" _Sammy, hey. It's, uh…it's me."_

And now he's right _here._

Sam takes a deep breath and squints as a beam of mid-morning sunlight hits his eye, collecting himself enough to knock.

Before he can, the door whips violently open. Sam's lifted, hauled inside and slammed bodily against a thin wall with Dean's fist twisted in the collar of his coat and the very sharp end of a wicked-looking blade pressed against his throat, biting into the tender skin.

Gun-shy, Dean is decidedly _not_.

Sam tries not to breathe too deeply and sure as _hell_ doesn't make any sudden movements. He's imagined reuniting with his lost brother, he's dreamed about this moment almost every night for five hundred and seven nights, but he's completely and wholly unprepared. Dean looks like a spooked but feral animal, eyes red and wild. He's never been someone to tangle with on a good day, and this is obviously anything but. "Dean? Dean, hey, it's just me. Sam."

Dean blinks hard, once, twice and then pulls his head back as a cloud of confusion overtakes his expression. To compensate, pressure on the blade increases, and Sam feels the sting of a slice. "Sammy?" His voice is a grating, tortured mess and his face is littered with bruising and cuts.

Sam resists the urge to nod, fully convinced that such a motion will bring him much closer to decapitation than he's comfortable with. He keeps as still as possible as he answers, "Yeah, Dean. S'just me."

Dean blinks once more, slowly drawing himself back and dropping his knife hand to his side. "Jesus, Sammy." He digs the palm of his curiously-bandaged free hand into his eye, his other clinging to his blade with a white-knuckled grip. "I thought you…" He shakes his head and takes a few steps back, trips over his own socked feet before managing to catch himself.

Sam moves forward, prepared to help his brother when he's stopped short by the business end of that odd-looking blade. The look in Dean's eyes is almost as dangerous.

He's made a mistake. A horrible mistake, assuming Dean would be okay because he's always been okay. After Dad, after Hell, after Lucifer and the apocalypse. Dean is _always_ okay. Sam raises his hands slowly, showing his skittish brother that they're empty and threatless.

"Silver knife?" Dean growls.

"What?" Sam's fingers fumble at the sheath at his hip, drag free a short, sharp blade.

Dean nods meaningfully. "You know the drill."

Sam gets it; it's been more than a fucking _year_ , and he understands his brother's hesitance and wariness. The look in his dark eyes that says _where have you BEEN?_ He quickly rolls up his sleeve and draws the knife across the fleshy underside of his arm, swallowing the bite of the blade and rotating his elbow so Dean can easily see the blood welling from the cut. "No black goo, either."

He sets the knife aside on the bureau and moves immediately to tug down the collar of his shirt, shows Dean the unbroken anti-possession tattoo. "And no demon, okay? Just me."

Dean shifts where he stands, doesn't yet seem satisfied. "Christo," he all but whispers, in a voice that's as broken as the rest of him appears.

"It's me, Dean," Sam says one more time, shoulders falling.

"Sammy?" The blade slips from his fingers, falls to the carpet.

Sam smiles, swallows roughly. "Yeah, Dean." He blows out a breath, runs his hands through his hair. "Man, I've been looking for you for…it's good to see you." He narrows his eyes. "Though I gotta say, you look like crap."

"Yeah." Dean looks away, rubbing self-consciously at the back of his neck with a shaky hand. "Well, there's no accounting for taste."

Dean might be making jokes, but Sam sure isn't. His big brother looks like _hell_. Or, Hell-adjacent, at least. He's a mess of cuts and contusions beneath too much scruff, and is far too skinny, the change obvious through several layers of ill-fitting shirts.

Sam moves to shut the door. "You wanna sit down? Catch up?" More than anything, he wants to get Dean off of his feet while his brother's still got some choice in the matter. His gaze falls to the rumbled pile of blanket and pillow next to the bed, eyes narrowing as he takes in the pale smear of blood on the yellowed pillowcase. "You sleep on the floor?"

"Huh?" Dean seems genuinely confused, in a general and unwell sort of way. Sam guides his brother's eyes down to the bedding, and he raises his eyebrows, rubbing distracted at his left forearm. "Oh, yeah. Yeah, it just, uh…"

"Hey." Sam waits until he's sure he has his brother's full, if not sluggish, attention. "You don't need to explain. I'm just…happy to see you." _Happy_ is a ridiculously insufficient term to properly capture what Sam is feeling. Another is quickly climbing the emotional ladder – _concern_. Because Dean seems shaky at best, and Sam would really like his brother to sit down so he can check him over. "Your arm okay?"

"What?" Dean seems to realize what he's doing and stills his hand, drops it away to his side. "Yeah, it's fine."

Sam nods slowly. "Seriously, man, sit down."

Dean cracks a tired smile. "Just as bossy as I remember." He moves for the chair, and can't seem to hide his limp any more than Sam can hide his worry.

He frowns. "What's up with your leg?"

"Nothin'," Dean says, but winces as he lowers himself carefully into the chair. "Twisted my ankle on that, uh, last push. For the portal."

"Can I see?"

"You develop a foot fetish over the past year or something? It's fine, Sam."

Sam bites his lip and nods, looks away. "Sixteen months."

"What?"

"Sixteen months. Not a year. Sixteen months that I didn't know if you were…" By the time Sam looks back, he's pulled out a vintage expression of John Winchester's: _don't fuck with me_. "Dean, you look like shit, and I wanna make this as simple as possible. You can deal with me, or you can deal with the ER."

Dean grips the arm of the chair and presses his lips into a thin line, looking like he's honestly considering the better of the two options, or maybe like he's going to run. After a long moment he concedes with a somewhat aggravated sigh. "You pick up any bedside manners from, uh, Nurse Ratched while I was gone?"

He's giving it his best, but Sam didn't miss the stammer, the pause his brother needed to find the correct reference. But there's no good to be found in acknowledging such a thing, so he does what he's always done, rolls his eyes and accepts the comment as the closest thing to permission he's likely to get. He kneels in front of Dean, carefully wraps a hand around the ankle in question and draws up the leg of his jeans for a better view.

Sam takes in the swelling and discoloration around the joint, lets out a low whistle. This tiny motel room isn't even likely to have cable, let alone x-ray equipment, but he's got enough collected experience to be pretty damn certain his brother's ankle is more than "twisted." "How far did you walk on this?"

"Just to the road," Dean says after a moment, breath hitching as Sam tests the tenderness around his ankle. "Hitched the rest of the way. Went longer on worse, believe me."

Sam does, but wishes he didn't. And there's no _just_ in Dean's _just to the road_ ; he's not sure exactly where his brother came out, but he'd personally hiked close to ten miles to get back to the car. He sits back on his heels and nods, switching fully into _triage mode_. "What else is broken?"

"Couple ribs, maybe," Dean admits with a wince. He raises his wrapped left hand, and Sam sees that it's a bit of a white t-shirt he's used. "Somethin' here. Think that's it."

"You THINK that's it?" _God, Dean_. Sam doesn't even want to imagine the hell his brother's been through, to be no longer able to distinguish what bones in his own body may have been fractured.

Dean clenches his jaw and shifts his gaze, finds some spot on the far wall to lock onto. In profile, he looks older by _years_. Hard ones. "We weren't having pillow fights, Sammy," he says quietly.

 _We._ A thought strikes Sam. "Was Cas with you?"

A different kind of pain flashes across Dean's face, and on the tail end of it, something horribly familiar. Guilt. "Yeah. Yeah, Cas, he, uh…he didn't make it."

Sam sucks in a harsh breath. Sometime later, when his brother isn't putting every last ounce of energy he's got into sitting up straight, he'll find a moment to mourn his fallen friend. He reaches out, grips Dean's knees. "Well, I'm glad you did."

"Yeah," Dean says vaguely, without looking back, and not necessarily agreeing.

Sam narrows his eyes, taking in his strong, resilient brother's too-skinny frame. "What did you eat?"

"Huh?"

There's an unfamiliar – but necessary – lag time becoming more and more apparent with each ensuing inquiry. A few extra seconds needed for Dean to process and assign appropriate meaning to his brother's words. Sam forced himself to remain patient, but inside he's _screaming_. "In purgatory?"

"Oh. Uh, leaves, mostly," Dean confesses, not meeting Sam's gaze. "And there was this, uh, _thing_ that lived there. Looked kinda like a…" He frowns, can't seem to find the right words. "Like a cross between a rabbit and a langolier."

Sam's eyes widen at the vivid, unappealing mental image.

"Called 'em rabbiliers," Dean continues. "Anyway, if you can get a decent fire going – and if you can get past the slime – they taste kinda like chicken." He shrugs, grimaces. "If chicken tasted like three-day-old ass dipped in sewer water, but hey, beggars and all that." The corner of his mouth curls upward, and he's back, just for a moment.

Sam returns the smile, but the thought of his big brother having to resort to eating plants and whatever the hell this rabbilier was,to _survive_ …it's like a blow to the gut. And he'll never again take a leftover slice of pizza for granted.

He pats Dean's knee again. "Let's get you patched up, and then get you some food." He cocks his head, widens his grin. "Maybe a razor."

* * *

Sam startles awake, blinking at the ceiling without any idea what's woken him. The room is dark and quiet, but not empty.

Then he hears it: muted sounds of pain and distress coming from his right. Coming from Dean.

Sam untangles an arm from the covers and levers up on an elbow. The alarm clock says it's just after two in the morning. He snaps on the light and rolls to the opposite side, where his brother is sleeping on the floor.

He'd offered to get a bigger room, with two beds, but his brother told him not to bother, that he couldn't get comfortable in the bed anyway. This motel mattress is flat and hard with springs digging into Sam's spine, but to Dean it'd been unbearably soft and unsupportive. There are a lot of adjustments to be made, along the road back to _normal_.

Dean seems to have stilled, and Sam waits a long, tense moment as he watches his brother settle back into sleep. But just as he's rolling back to turn the light off, Dean looses another wounded, discontented sound and Sam's heart sinks, even though nightmares are to be expected.

He drops a cautious arm over the side of the mattress and, thinking back on how he'd been greeted at the door, gently and warily jostles Dean's shoulder. His _baking hot_ shoulder, the heat startling even through his multiple shirts.

Dean doesn't really rouse at his touch, just rolls his head a bit, looking sweaty and flushed, the butterfly bandages Sam had used to close the cut on his forehead standing out stark and white.

So maybe not just a nightmare, after all.

Sam never fully flipped off the _triage mode_ switch after patching up his brother, and is suddenly wide awake and searching out an issue as he extricates himself from the blankets and crouches next to Dean. He keeps a wary eye out for concealed weaponry, but Dean seems too out of it to launch an attack, and that's not a great sign.

"What's goin' on here, man?" Sam muses quietly, laying the back of his hand along his brother's red face. "You sick? Bring some nasty hellbug back with you?"

The heat is rolling off of Dean in palpable waves, even as he shivers violently.

Sam swallows. "Can't be hot _and_ cold, dude. Gotta pick one." He doesn't need a thermometer to know the fever is _bad_. Enough that it's likely been burning for at least the entire day. He's just missed it. Dean's feeling lousy wasn't surprising, and Sam had been distracted with countless bruises and more than one unnaturally-shifting bone.

One thing's for sure – he's getting his clearly ill brother off of the damn floor.

As soon as Sam gets a grip under Dean's shoulders, a tangible rocket of pain jolts his brother, bringing with it a violent flare of awareness.

Dean's eyes blow open and he slaps desperately at Sam's hands with a devastating hum of pain. "Geddoff," he gasps. "Geddoff."

Sam complies quickly, helps his brother settle once more onto his side on the carpet. "Back?" he inquires, already tugging Dean's collar away from his neck. He'd raised the hem of Dean's t-shirt to inspect the cut and bruising over the ribs he'd self-diagnosed as cracked, but the wound was clean and seemed to be healing, and his brother insisted the fractures weren't recent enough to even warrant an Ace bandage, so Sam let it go. _Went longer on worse_. Not the smartest move, admittedly, but Dean was being both oddly self-conscious and unexpectedly honest about his injuries, and Sam took him at his word. Was _sick_ of looking for damage on his brother.

He should've known better. _Dammit_. The gouge across Dean's right shoulder blade is days' old, deep and nasty, the split skin now puffy and red and oozing. The wound could definitely have benefited from proper irrigation and stitching, or simply Sam _finding_ it in time to get some antibiotics into his brother's system and get ahead of the infection that's clearly taken hold.

Sam pats Dean gently on his good shoulder. "Looks like something got you good, man. You remember what it was?"

"Mmm," his brother hums noncommittally, flinching away from Sam's hand.

"Think, Dean," he persists. "Do I need to get the holy water?"

Dean takes a breath, licks his lips. "Yeah." He doesn't expand, or specify, and that can only mean one thing.

 _Hellhound._

It's slow-going, getting his sick brother transitioned from the floor to the bed, and it's more than a little disconcerting that he doesn't put up more of a fight along the way.

Dean might be back, Sam realizes, but he's not out of the woods yet.

* * *

 _To be continued..._


	3. Chapter 3

**The Yellowed Wood**

 _Chapter Three_

* * *

He hauls ass through the brush, branches snagging his clothes and whipping his face and neck. His boots slam against the hard-packed dirt and his breaths come in short, controlled chuffs. He's been running so fast for so long, he can't really _feel_ the strain on his legs anymore, but the rising stitch in his side is the real warning that he won't be able to keep this up much longer.

Then powerful, ravenous jaws snap at his heels and a familiar, unearthly howl cuts through the air and rocks him to his very core, and Dean digs deep, finds a brand new gear to kick into. His heart picks up the pace, matches his sprinting feet pound for tingling pound, and his eyes blur and sting – a mixture of blood and sweat obscuring his vision.

He'd never told Sam, but he's always sort of been able to see the sons of bitches. Or, _sense_ them, at least, ever since…

 _Sic 'im, boy._

There's no _sort of_ here in purgatory, no _sensing_. They're massive, vicious-looking fuckers, all glowing red eyes and filthy matted fur, foaming at the mouth and hungry for blood. His.

Dean's losing speed, legs turning to jelly and each breath harder to draw than the last. The atmosphere here wasn't meant to support human life; his throat aches, his overtaxed lungs burn from the thin, noxious air being forced in and out of them.

He's not going to make it.

A familiar silhouette steps into the clearing ahead. An offensive stance, long blade held tensely at one side.

"Dean! Down!"

He drops immediately at the shout, falls to his knees just as the hound makes a leap for him. He's not moving quickly enough to get completely out of the path of its brutal claws, and a back foot clips him across the shoulder as it passes. The impact leaves a trail of fire across his back, shoves him face-first into the dirt and empties his lungs.

He rolls off of the path until the trunk of a thick tree stops his momentum, pulling desperately for oxygen and listening to the violent sounds of Benny making quick work of the beast just out of eyeshot. The vampire's blade whistles through the air, and the hound's decapitated head thumps toward Dean's feet.

"'Bout damn time you show up," he manages, wheezing and coughing, fists curling in the dirt as he tries to push up onto his knees.

Benny saunters toward him, casually swiping the wide blade on his pant leg, leaving behind smears of the hellhound's dark blood. He lays a palm against the rough bark of the tree and raises an eyebrow. "What're you talking about? Dean, I've been right here, all day."

Might just be Dean's ringing ears, but the vampire's voice sounds strange, accent watered down. "Whatever," he groans, rolling his eyes and coughing once more. "Could've used that backup sooner. We've gotta keep movin'." He elbows up further, only to stop short, gasping as a white-hot pain screams out from the fresh slashes over his right shoulder blade, like lava being poured into the open wounds. "Sonuva – "

"Hey, hey." Benny drops into a crouch at his side and pushes him back, gently enough but still with more force than his body appreciates. "Sorry, man, I was only gone a minute, just stepped out to get some things from the car."

The car? The pain in his back is making him loopy, muddying his thoughts.

"Yeah, Dean, the car."

 _My baby_. Damn, he misses that car. Almost as much as he misses…

"Sammy?" Dean's blood runs cold, because but it's not Benny – it's _Sam_ , looking anxious and concerned and all of those annoying things Sam's always been known for. But Sam's not supposed to be here. _Not here_.

He leans heavily against the tree, tilts his head and squints up at his little brother, the white, hot sun flaring and haloing around the kid's shaggy head. _No, Sammy_. "You shouldn't be here."

Sam's eyebrows draw together in a childlike and absolutely infuriating sort of way. "Where else am I gonna go, Dean?"

Dean rolls his head, swallows roughly against the fire spreading through his injured back. "Not – " The word gets lodged in his throat, caught up in a ball of rising, pain-spurred nausea. "Not here," he forces through clenched teeth, tries once to push up from the ground. "We gotta – "

"Dean…" Sam's giant hand grips his good – well, his _better_ – arm, keeping him still and shaking him mostly carefully, but definitely with purpose. "Man, we're still in the motel. It's only been a few…we're not – Jesus, Dean, you're burning up."

"Wh – motel?" Dean blinks heavily, slowly, and everything around him fuzzes and fades except for the wide-eyed, worried look on his brother's face.

The tall, gray trees blur into a solid wall of dirty taupe, and the too-bright sun shrinks, sharpening into the buzzing, too-bright bulb of the lighting fixture in the bathroom behind Sam. It's a headboard at Dean's back, not the trunk of a tree, and the ground's a lumpy mattress, which is somehow less comfortable.

Dean squints against the stabbing light and the concern, tries to roll away but Sam tightens his hold on his left arm, shakes his head.

"Stay on this side, man."

And, yeah, that's maybe not the worst idea the kid has ever had. The pain singing out from the slashes in Dean's right shoulder is something special, intense and _hot_ and scarily familiar. The split skin thrums in time with his too-fast pulse, and he swallows against the sudden urge to vomit.

"S'a hellhound," he whispers, without thinking or knowing why, in a broken voice he hardly recognizes as his own.

"That's what you said, man."

"Where'd it…what happened?"

"You're sick." Sam swallows, brings up the hand not clinging to Dean to gesture vaguely over his own shoulder. "The cuts on your back, they're infected. Pretty bad, too." There's only worry in his tone, and not an accusation, though Dean knows there should be.

"I didn't know," he admits, feeling light-headed and _on fire_ , and yeah, pretty damn sick. His eyelids droop.

"Hey." Sam jiggles his arm, fingers gripping the flannel sleeve tightly. "You with me now?"

"Yeah," Dean breathes, grimacing and tensing as a fresh tidal wave of pain rolls over him.

"Okay." Sam nods solemnly, hand moving out of Dean's pathetically small field of vision. "I gotta…I'm gonna clean it out, but…"

Dean shifts his head, and sees it now, the flask of holy water in his brother's hand. His entire body goes stiff as a board. "Goody." He licks his lips. "I didn't miss the fun part."

Sam crouches next to the bed, puts himself at eye level without ever breaking contact with Dean's arm. There's a different sort of pain radiating there and vying for his attention, but he can't give in to it, not at this moment. "I can knock you out if you want, man. I've got some stuff."

"S'okay. Just do it."

Sam waits a moment, then bobs his head. "Okay." He sets the holy water aside and tugs gently on Dean's sleeve, wordlessly requesting he do what he can to sit up, and it turns out that's not too damn much.

He comes to his senses as Sam's tugging on the cuff of his shirtsleeve, knowing there's something there that Sammy's not supposed to see. Not yet, not until Dean's got his shit together and his story straight. _A vampire, Dean? What the fuck were you thinking?_ He's not ready for that, tries to pull away with the flannel bunched around his wrist and almost tips right over.

"Dude," Sam complains, a controlled, even tone meant to overshadow his annoyance. "Quit movin' around. You're not helping."

"Wait," he says, leaning away, but Sam's on a roll now, moves straight to the wounds on his back, probing the spot through the thin, worthless barrier of his t-shirt. Dean folds in on himself, doesn't put up much of a fight when his brother faceplants him back into the pillow.

Sam's hand grips his good shoulder in an unspoken _I got you_ , and Dean's gone so long without such a reassurance, having it now almost hurts _worse._

Dean's never heard _anything_ so loud as his own labored breathing, and he can't imagine that his heart can keep up this pace much longer. He hangs in for as long as he can, but when Sam starts in with the holy water, the pain sends him straight up through the roof.

* * *

"Y'killed the son of a bitch, right?" he demands of Benny, feeling loose and hot and like his head might roll clean off of his shoulders.

"Yeah, Dean, it's dead."

"I'da…had it," he breathes, shifting against a bed of leaves that feels too much like a _bed_. But he can't let himself think that way, can't let his guard down because there's always something next in line to rip his throat out.

"Stop talking, dude. Just rest."

* * *

He wants water, possibly more than he's ever wanted anything.

"Not if you're just gonna puke it up all over me again, man. Take it easy this time."

He chokes on the water, and it's both funny and _not_ , because the voice in his ear almost sounds like Sammy.

* * *

"S'hot," he groans, raising a weak hand to flap at nothing in particular.

"That's you, man."

He tries to lift his head, wants to find his brother but can't focus for _shit._ "Sam?"

"Still here, Dean. Get some sleep."

He doesn't understand why Sam's here but sleep sounds like a _fantastic_ idea. Kid always was the smart one.

* * *

When Dean next wakes, he's got a face full of musty yellow pillowcase and a clear enough head to immediately note his vulnerable position. He moves to shove up, but his hands sink into the mattress and his arms wobble, weak and refusing to bear his weight. His temple crashes back into the pillow and a soft huff of laughter – more relieved than amused – sounds off from the side. _Not Benny,_ he remembers, with an accompanying twinge from his left arm.

"Sam?" he asks, in a raspy, wrecked whisper. He clears his dry, scratchy throat, or tries to, anyway. "Sammy?"

"Yeah, hey." A creak of shifting weight and furniture.

Dean blinks a few times, long and slow, to clear his vision and take stock of his surroundings. He feels wrecked and weak, but cool. And hungry – _definitely_ hungry. And he doesn't really recognize anything he sees expect for his brother. "Y'okay?" Easier than flipping light switches, being a big brother. Something you can't turn off.

"I'm fine." Sam has a chair pulled close, propped next to the bed in a vigil position they've both held far too many times. He leans forward. "How you feeling? You really awake this time?"

Dean screws up his nose. "This time?"

Sam pushes a hand through his hair, runs his palm along his stubbled chin, and offers a smile that almost hits the mark. "Yeah. We've just…had a couple rough days. Got you patched up, though. For real, this time."

Dean knew there was more than what he'd disclosed to his brother, deep gouges and deeper bruising and nothing cared for the way it required, but he can't think clearly enough at the moment to run through a detailed catalogue and pinpoint which wounds are responsible for this look in Sam's eyes. He aches, badly, and pretty much everywhere, and can't really rustle up the energy to move much. Or even to keep his eyes open. His right hand slips under the pillow almost of its own volition, fingers twitching for the grip of a weapon that's not there.

"Dean."

"Hmm."

Sam's hand drops warm and heavy onto his left arm, and he can't bite back his gasp at the tenderness there, the full force of a damned soul looking to get out. The persistent contact draws Dean's eyes open and down and he's surprised to find the sore, fiery limb wrapped loosely in gauze, and that means… _shit_.

His brother reads it on his face, taps his thumb gently against the wrapping, looking suspicious and scared. "What's this?"

He knows the vampire can't stay in his arm forever, or probably even through the week, but he'd really been hoping to avoid this part. Sam's not going to like this, not gonna understand. Dean doesn't currently possess the strength or mental speed to put together a convincing lie, or even a half-assed dodge, and he has a suspicion that's exactly why the sneaky son of a bitch is coming at him right outta the gate like this.

"Dean?"

He releases a breath, winces around the truth as it slips past his dry lips. "That's Benny."

* * *

 _To be continued..._

* * *

 _A/N: Happy Halloween! Discounting more inspiration from this tag-a-rific season 12 - holy SHIT, season TWELVE? - I will see you all in December with the next installment of_ **Be All Our Sins Remember'd** _! I'm off to scare the pants off the neighborhood kids, now. :P_


	4. Chapter 4

**The Yellowed Wood**

 _Chapter Four_

* * *

When Sam reenters the motel room, arms loaded down with items from the medical stockpile kept in the Impala's trunk, his brother is rolling weakly atop the mattress and loosing a litany of hushed words and wounded sounds punctuated by horrible wheezing. Like the wind's been knocked out of him, and he can't draw a proper breath.

Dean coughs harshly, once, as Sam reaches his side. The action jars his sick, battered body more than it seems to appreciate, and he folds in on himself a bit, protecting his hurt shoulder and digging his flushed, sweaty face into the pillow. Sam dumps the supplies in a haphazard pile on the floor next to the bed, and it takes a fair amount of work to keep his feverish brother on his uninjured side, a lot of careful placement of helping hands.

He still flinches at the touch, as Sam's fingers no doubt come in contact with bruised skin he hasn't yet catalogued, curls his lip. "'Bout damn time you show up," Dean murmurs, not really opening his eyes, shivering from some combination of pain and illness.

Sam frowns at his brother's words, can't help hearing the accusation laced in what he knows is simply a mindless, fever-sparked ramble. _I know_ , he thinks helplessly, _I wasn't there and I'm SORRY, man._ He won't ever be able to say it enough, or begin to make up for the time that's passed. He swallows. "What're you talking about, Dean? I've been right here, all day."

"Whatever," Dean groans, coughing once more, seemingly still unable to catch his breath, like he's taken a serious blow in the past few minutes. "Could've used that backup sooner. We've gotta keep movin'." He tries to elbow up off of the bed, gasps a noise of hurt that cleaves Sam's heart in two. "Sonuva…"

It's not just the sound that does Sam in, it's knowing now that Dean is seeing _something_ , and it sure as hell isn't his little brother, or even this motel room.

 _Purgatory_ , he realizes, his stomach tying itself in knots. His brother is seeing – is _remembering_ – purgatory.

 _Jesus, Dean._ No, Sam doesn't have nearly enough supplies to patch all of his brother's wounds. Especially the ones that aren't so outwardly visible, the ones for which there may very well be no patching.

Whether it's the visceral horror of whatever attack he's reliving in his mind or the fact that he's just so stubbornly DEAN, his brother doesn't give up so easily. He recovers from the shock to his system and moves once more to escape the confines of the bed, to _keep movin.'_

"Hey, hey," Sam says quickly, putting a hand on Dean's shoulder and doing his best to keep his restless brother still without causing him further pain. At first glance, he seems to miss the mark on both accounts. "Sorry, man, I was only gone a minute, just stepped outside to get some things from the car."

At the mention of the Impala, Dean almost seems to rouse back to reality a bit. Like Pavlov's fucking bell. "Car?"

Sam nods encouragingly, though his brother still hasn't really looked up at him. "Yeah, Dean." His voice breaks. "The car."

That seems to do it. "Sammy?" All color leaches out of Dean's face as his eyes open and lock on Sam's for the first real time since the nightmare. He seems – and looks – utterly distressed by Sam's presence. "You shouldn't be here."

Dean might be seeing him, and hearing him, but he's still not _here._ Sam knows all of that, and he still asks softly, "Where else am I gonna go, Dean?"

Dean rolls his head against the thin pillow, swallows with obvious difficulty. "Not – " He chokes around the word, gags a bit. "Not here," he says thickly, and moves to shove up from the bed. He's not just distressed by the thought of Sam being trapped with him in that place; he's _destroyed_ by it.

It hurts something _fierce_ to see his big brother struggling like this, but damn if it isn't good to know that he's _back_. Sam's spent the past year and a half looking out for himself, acclimating to a life without Dean watching out for him. Something he'd spent too much of his life bitching about, and taking for granted.

 _Never again._

Dean levers himself up on an elbow, looking flushed and sick, but ready to run. "We gotta – "

"Dean…" Sam grips his brother's uninjured arm and gives him a gentle, meaningful shake. He's going to hurt himself – more – if Sam can't get him to calm down, to come _back_. "Man, we're still in the motel. It's only been a few…" His mind won't settle on one path, and the heat coming off of his brother is stifling and frightening, distracting. "We're not – Jesus, Dean, you're burning up." That's his path now, his priority. This is a _wicked_ infection ravaging his brother's system, and Sam has to get him taken care of, and cooled down. _Now_.

"Wh – motel?" Dean blinks, stares with a bright, feverish gaze at something over Sam's shoulder.

Sam watches it happen, in stages of understanding that go to work dulling the glassy edges of his brother's eyes. Watches as it sinks in that they aren't _there_ , that they're here in this no-tell dump, together and relatively safe.

Dean squints, inexplicably tries once more to roll away but Sam tightens his hold on his brother's baking hot arm, shakes his head. "Stay on this side, man."

Dean blanches, drops his chin in a single, acquiescing bob and presses his right fist into the pillow next to his head. "S'a hellhound," he says, voice barely above a whisper.

Sam's chest tightens. "That's what you said, man."

"Where'd it…" Dean lifts his head and blinks roughly, like he's trying to clear his vision. When he speaks again, his voice is noticeably stronger, like he's come back to himself. "What happened?"

"You're sick." Sam sits back on his heels a bit. He doesn't dare let go of his brother and lose this connection, but raises his free hand to motion over his own shoulder. "The cuts on your back, they're infected. Pretty bad, too."

"I didn't know," Dean says on a breathy sigh.

The admission puts into stark relief the hell he's been through more than anything has so far. More than the cuts and contusions, more than the infection currently attacking his system. Because Dean is a stubborn, boneheaded son of a bitch who's always had a bad habit of ignoring injuries or allowing them go untreated longer than Sam would like, but he's never let himself get this sick. This is uncharted territory of repression and trauma, and Sam suddenly feels very alone, with a horribly heavy weight on his shoulders.

Dean's eyelids droop and the rest of his body follows suit, melting against the thin motel mattress.

Which probably isn't the worst thing for him right now, but Sam needs to make sure his brother knows what's coming up next before he starts in with the poking and the prodding. "Hey." He shakes Dean's arm a bit, just enough to make him open his eyes. "You with me now?"

Once again, Dean flinches at Sam's touch, screws up his nose as the muscles in his arm tense. "Yeah," he sends through clenched teeth. His fingers dig into the mattress and his head snaps back in the wake of a fresh wave of pain from the infected claw marks on his back.

"Okay," Sam says softly, nodding mostly to himself. "I gotta…I'm gonna clean it out, but…" But there's no doubt that this is going to be painful, and Dean's clearly been through enough.

"Goody." Dean licks his lips, lifts an eyebrow. "I didn't miss the fun part."

Sam leans in close and makes sure he has his brother's attention, or as much of it as Dean has to offer at the moment. "I can knock you out if you want, man. I've got some stuff."

Dean jerks his chin. "S'okay. Just do it."

It takes a moment for the implications of that to sink in; that whatever lies on the other side of his eyelids must be so damn bad, Dean would rather be conscious for a dose of holy water into open hellhound wounds. Sam flounders wordlessly, and contemplates drugging his brother anyway, because this is going to _hurt_. "Okay," he says finally, uneasily. He straightens from his crouch and goes to work tugging on Dean's shirtsleeve, trying to draw him into a seated position.

Dean does what he can to help with the transition, but it's not much. His breath is sawing out through clenched teeth, and he's playing keep-away with his left arm for some damn reason, won't let Sam get a good grip on him there. Even so, he's frighteningly easy to overpower, and Sam gets the left sleeve of Dean's flannel shirt drawn down to his wrist before his brother wrenches seriously away, or tries to. He doesn't really have the strength to move a whole hell of a lot, but the intention is definitely there, and it's only serving to draw this entire ordeal out much longer than Sam would like.

"Dude," he complains. "Quit movin' around. You're not helping."

"Wait." Dean leans away still. He licks his lips anxiously, eyes darting around the room and looking a little crazed.

 _Quit FIGHTING me, Dean_. He's just going to have to cut the damn shirts off, unless his brother's lifelong stubborn streak chooses this very moment to give way to sense and reason. Sam leans over, shifts the collar of Dean's t-shirt out of the way to get a look at the wounds, and the thin material tightens against the inflamed skin circling the gouges. It can't feel good, and with a noise of pain that seems to get caught in his throat, Dean finally gives up fighting him at this point, is deadweight in Sam's arms on the short trip from almost-sitting to face-down-and-flat-on-the-mattress.

He's not moving much, but he's still awake, almost desperately so. Dean's breathing is loud and labored, and he's clinging to consciousness like he's terrified of what's on the other side. He flinches as Sam slips the bottom hem of his t-shirt between the scissors, slicing through the cotton with one swift snap.

He shifts the flaps of bloody, sweaty material out of the way, exposing the gashes. They're pretty nasty-looking, even in the relatively weak light the room has to offer, but Sam has everything he needs on hand, and he knows what to do. _Flush the wound, get rid of any debris, pack with moist gauze and check every twelve hours. Ibuprofen and fluids for the fever, and keep the room at a comfortable temperature._ Like he's reading his father's notes.

The muscles in his brother's back tighten in pain and anticipation, and he exhales harshly, a rough, audible pant.

 _Let go, Dean_ , Sam pleads silently. _Just let go, man_. He finds the holy water buried in the folds of the blankets and lifts the flask, clenching his jaw as he positions the opening over the deepest section.

It's happened more than he cares to admit, and there's nothing that quite cuts at Sam's heart or spirit like knowing he's hurting his brother. The first splash of holy water draws a subtle _hiss_ of steam from the open wounds, and a less subtle sound from Dean that will follow Sam for quite some time.

Dean's low cry of pain tapers off as he finally loses his precarious battle with unconsciousness, and Sam breathes a sigh of relief for the both of them.

The next drip of holy water releases another puff of steam from his brother's flayed skin, but the third runs clean and without incident to seep into the folds of his flannel shirt. And Sam guesses that's probably the best he could have hoped for.

He moves carefully, but robotically through the rest of the checklist, mind withdrawn from the actions of his hands. After he's gotten the cleaned wounds packed with moist gauze, he lays a few dry strips over top, leaving breathing room, and goes about rousing Dean enough to sip from a glass of water clouded with crushed ibuprofen.

His brother swallows with some difficulty, mutters something entirely unintelligible, and drifts off too easily.

Sam sets the half-empty glass on the bedside table and drags his fingers through his hair. His eyes catch the blurry glint of his watch sliding past and he squints at the face, takes note of the time. It's nearly three in the morning, and he's _feeling_ every bit of it, in the physical and emotional exhaustion that's pressing down on him like a boulder. He rolls his neck and spots the tiny, single-serve coffee maker on the desk. As much as he'd love nothing more than to fall onto the pile of blankets on the floor that his brother had deemed a good-enough bed and sleep for ten to twelve hours, they've still got a hell of a night ahead.

He surveys the tiny room, wrinkling his nose. The mattress is hard and the ceiling is moldy, water-damaged. There's a very serious smell wafting out from the bathroom, and Sam wishes for something better. Nicer. They'll make for Rufus' cabin and meet up with Kevin as soon as Dean's well enough – and _aware_ enough – to make the trip. But this will have to do for now.

He sets a cup of coffee to brew, drags the single chair in the room close to his brother's side, and goes to work gently wrangling free the cut remnants of Dean's shirts. The flannel is already bunched around his left wrist, and the sleeve of his t-shirt slides easily enough off his right arm and out from beneath his chest, but the bundle of material catches on his left forearm, like there's a bit of swelling there he'd not noticed before.

Sam frowns, grabs Dean's warm wrist and gently rotates his arm, shoving the shirtsleeve out of his way. His eye widen at the sight of the hot, glowing bulge writhing under his brother's skin.

"What the hell?" he whispers, appalled, his gaze darting to Dean's slack face. He thought he was out of his element before, but this could be it. This could very well be what pushes Sam to his breaking point, because he doesn't have a _fucking_ clue what this thing… _in_ his brother is. He's never seen anything like this, and his own skin crawls from the sight of it. No wonder Dean had been acting like his arm was hurting him.

Sam swallows. _But why didn't he SAY anything?_

It starts to really hit him then, for the first time; _sixteen_ goddamn months have passed since he had his brother with him. Dean had been talking to someone, trapped in the purgatory of his fevered dreams, and that someone wasn't Sam. He's been through things Sam can't even _begin_ to imagine, just as Dean can't fathom what _Sam's_ gone through. That pain of loss, that refusal to accept the way the cards have been dealt, and a year-and-a-half-long search to bring his brother home.

But his own pain isn't the issue on the table right now; Dean's is. This could be a separate infection, some bacteria borne from purgatory that didn't like the trip topside, or it could be something brand spanking new. Just the next problem in a seemingly never-ending queue.

Upon further inspection, Sam finds no open wound, just an eerie, unsettling glow, and veins standing out against that strange knob beneath his brother's skin that moves as his fingers get too close.

Sam shudders and wraps the entire thing in loose, clean gauze. And then he sits back and waits.

* * *

"Y'killed the son of a bitch, right?"

It's not the first time Dean's snapped awake with a question, a plea, or a command on his lips.

Sam sighs, rubs sleepy grit from his eyes and plays along, does what he can to calm his fevered, senseless brother. "Yeah, Dean, it's dead." He wants to know who his brother's talking to, but he wants Dean to be _well_ before anything.

"I'da…had it," Dean slurs.

"Stop talking, dude," Sam says, giving up on the pretense of patience. He scrubs a hand through his hair. "Just rest."

* * *

Dean wants more water, and Sam is happy to oblige, so long as he doesn't end up wearing it.

"Not if you're just gonna puke it up all over me again, man." He holds the glass aloft, waiting, hoping, _praying_ for some sign of awareness in his brother's bleary gaze. "Take it easy this time."

Dean chokes on the drink of water anyway, staring at Sam like he can't quite figure him out.

* * *

He'd drawn the blankets away _hours_ ago, and still Dean kicks at covers that aren't there, fights…well, all sorts of things that aren't there.

"S'hot," he mutters, when Sam tells him to quit it.

He's going on his second full day of this, and is growing snappish in his exhaustion. "That's you, man."

"Sam?" Dean asks, like he's just now reasoning that it is in fact _Sam_ in the room with him.

Something about that thought cuts at him severely, and Sam finds that he has all the patience he'll ever need. "Still here, Dean. Get some sleep."

* * *

The next time Dean wakes – and _really_ wakes; eyes open and everything, not just thrashing about under covers that had been kicked clear hours earlier – he moves immediately to push up, and that's how Sam knows he's really _awake_. Because he's being _Dean_ , or this new tense, wide-eyed and vaguely traumatized version; searching for higher ground, for a less vulnerable position.

Sam's chuckle is quiet and weary, but relieved.

"Sam?" Dean's voice is a rasp of a breath, a wrecked whisper of sound that makes Sam want to sleep for a week. "Sammy?"

He leans forward in his chair, makes sure he's _right here_ for his brother, a pitiful attempt to make up for all the times he wasn't. "Yeah, hey."

Dean blinks a few times, working to bring the room into focus, and when his eyes land on Sam, he asks, "Y'okay?"

The inquiry warms his heart, and breaks it at the same time. "I'm fine." Sam scrubs a hand over his eyes. "How you feeling? You really awake this time?"

"This time?"

Sam drags his fingers through his hair, rubs his chin. He smiles, aiming for reassuring but knowing he likely only achieves _tired_. "Yeah. We've just…had a couple rough days. Got you patched up, though. For real, this time."

The swelling around Dean's ankle has gone down, and in a half-dozen other places that Sam had also settled ice packs against; sites of angry bruising his brother hadn't clued him in on during their first go-round.

Dean's right hand dips under his pillow, instinctively searching out a weapon that isn't there.

Sam had learned his lesson about his brother, fevers, and loaded weapons a long time ago. "Dean."

"Hmm?"

He places his hand on Dean's left arm, near the loose wrapping of gauze. He waits for the panicked look in his brother's eyes to subside before asking, "What's this?"

Dean runs the gamut of stall tactics; he licks his lips, wiggles his eyebrows and wrinkles his nose. He does everything short of say "hey, look over there," and Sam's not having it.

"Dean?" he prompts.

His brother sighs, winces, and says with complete honesty, "That's Benny."

* * *

 _To be continued..._

* * *

 _Special Author's Note:_

 _In the background of nearly everything I've written over the past year are two additional sets of scouring eyes and helping hands, those of Nova42 and BlueRiverSteel._

 _I implore to everyone out there who's writing because they care and it means something – find a friend like I've found. And I've been so incredibly lucky to find two. Find someone who's smarter and more talented than you, who will be honest with you, even when it stings. Someone who won't let you get by with a subpar bit of writing just because they're your friend. Someone who will pat you on the back when something looks good and, more importantly, will challenge you when you can do better. Someone who will always immediately ask "what's next?"_


	5. Chapter 5

**The Yellowed Wood**

 _Chapter Five_

* * *

"Benny," Sam parrots, after a long moment of wordless, wide-eyed floundering. He doesn't seem upset, or pissed – not yet, anyway. Just seems to be thinking, _what the fuck?_ And, sure, Dean gets that.

He nods, bearded chin scratching against the pillowcase. A fire ignites in that strange knot beneath his skin where the soul of the man in question resides, tearing at muscle and twisting around bone, the squirrelly, impatient son of a bitch. Dean's not sure how much time has passed since he stepped through that portal, but the spell – not to mention his own thoroughly thrashed body – won't be able to hold the vampire for much longer. As much as he's dreading it, this conversation has been an inevitability from the moment he first heard his brother's voice on the other end of the phone.

He winces but doesn't look down at the achy spot in his arm, keeps his eyes on his brother. "Yeah." Dean's voice is sandpaper rough, and catches in his throat.

"That – that's _Benny_."

"Yeah."

"Benny," Sam says again, like one more time is going to crack some mysterious code he hasn't yet figured out. He quirks an eyebrow, as if he's unsure whether Dean's shitting him, or possibly still fever-delirious. Unfortunately, he's neither.

"Dude." Dean rolls his eyes, more tired than annoyed, and decides that he might feel like utter shit, like he was sliced and diced by a hellhound then spit out of the other side of his worst nightmare and hung out to dry, but this isn't a conversation he's about to be have lying face-down in bed. He's weak and wrecked and out of his element, but is clear-headed enough for this talk and Sam knows it. This will only get worse before it's over, because Sammy's exhausted and stressed and has apparently been waiting for answers for days, and he's as good as a lit stick of dynamite right now. Dean needs to find higher ground before the _boom_.

He positions his palms on either side of his head and begins to shakily shove himself upright, a sharp protest singing out from his glowing, loosely wrapped left arm, and a much more profound argument growling from the tender, slashed skin and muscle of his back.

As soon as Sam realizes his brother is trying to sit up, he rises from his chair and moves to assist, sticking a careful hand against the flat out Dean's bare chest, far from any of the healing damage. He helps him leverage up, pausing when Dean gasps and waiting for him to collect himself enough to slowly rotate atop the unbearably soft mattress. Sam helps him scoot back and prop up against the headboard, taking care not to allow any bit of Dean that's cut or bandaged to rest against the rough surface.

The transition has drained away any energy reserve Dean's managed to build up, leaves him sweaty and gasping and _hurting_. He slips a bit against the headboard but remains upright. Or, mostly. He can feel his own pulse thrumming rapidly in the cuts on his back, beneath the odd but once-familiar itch and pull of medical tape and bandages.

Sam's a bit blurry around the edges as he sinks back into his chair and rubs his chin, jaw clenched as he silently works through what he's been told so far. He still doesn't seem mad but he's certainly not happy, and Dean's not sure he's blinked yet.

Dean's pretty well-versed in self-preservation these days, and he just watches, waiting Sammy out.

"Okay," Sam says finally. He's drawn and pale, the sort of weariness that only comes from a serious stretch of worry coupled with an unhealthy lack of sleep. Dean's felt the way his brother looks, one more than one occasion. "Okay." He raises a hand, like he's awaiting a better answer to be dropped into his open palm. "And Benny is a…?"

"He's a friend," Dean says, in as firm a voice as he can manage, one he hasn't had an opportunity to use in too damn long, one he's always used to let Sammy know who's boss.

The voice does its job and gives Sam pause, but only for a moment. Then he goes right back to pursing his lips and shaking his head. "That's not good enough, Dean."

"It's gonna have to be."

Sam waves tensely in the direction of Dean's wrapped arm. "So you're telling me there's a…a…" He can't seem to find the right word, or settle on anything close.

"Soul," Dean supplies, quietly but steadily. _Leave it at that, Sammy_.

But not Sam. Never Sam. "A _soul_? Of a – of something from _purgatory?"_ He sits back in his chair. "Dean, are you – "

He bites his tongue mid-sentence, but even after all of this time apart Dean still knows his brother well enough to supplement the rest of his rant: _Are you completely out of your fucking mind?_

He's not. Dean can hardly make sense of it in his own mind, and he _knows_ how this sounds to his brother. But there's also something to be said for loyalty, and he knows that he owes the vamp this much. For saving his life, from the hound, the wolf, the pack of Leviathan. It's not like he's looking to make room in the backseat of the Impala for Benny and start taking him along on hunting trips, but Dean didn't haul his fangy ass all this way just to lop off the son of a bitch's head without giving him a chance to prove himself.

Souls are a touchy subject for them both, and Sam takes a moment to digest the information. He finds a spot on the far wall to stare at, narrows his eyes. "Was this – Dean." He lowers his eyes and leans forward, lays his forearms against his thighs like thinking _casual_ will reward him with more honesty. He laces his fingers together, hands bouncing anxiously in the space between his knees. "Was this something that happened? Or something you _did_?" He's a smart kid, and asks like he already knows the answer, and knows he won't like it.

The "how" and "when" are skipped, because while this may have been the result of some crazy-ass spell Dean had never heard of, they've crossed paths with all sorts of crazy-ass shit over the years, and Sam doesn't pause to question the logistics.

Dean swallows, shifting gingerly as pain spikes in a half-dozen spots throughout his abused body. "If you're askin' me if I knew about it when it happened…then, yeah." His eyes tick down to where a faint glow is emanating from beneath the loose wrapping of gauze around his aching forearm. "I did."

"Okay. So what…I mean, what happens next? Is that – that _thing_ …just supposed to be _in_ you now? Forever?"

"What?" Dean frowns. "No, Sam. Jesus, no. It's – it was a way out. The only way out."

Sam nods. "So then now we…what?"

Dean hadn't really thought about there being a _we_ for this part. "We go to Louisiana. And, uh, let 'im out."

"Him?" Sam quirks an eyebrow, then snorts. "Right. Benny. So we just…let him out, and cross our fingers that purgatory turned him into a _nice_ monster?"

Dean tilts his head back and stares at the water-stained ceiling. "Yeah, Sam, pretty much," he returns, with a fair amount of bite.

"Okay." Sam stands abruptly, knocking his chair to the side with a scuff against the carpet. He stays there for a moment, eyes wide and darting all over the room. Everywhere but Dean. "I think I need to get some sleep."

"Sam – "

"No, Dean. Just…" Sam's roving gaze stills, finding that spot on the far wall again and he shakes his head, a muscle in his jaw visibly jumping. "You – you _brought_ something back with you from purgatory." He lowers his chin, pins sharp, narrowed eyes on Dean. "From _purgatory_. On _purpose_. You get that, right?" He makes a fist, tries to hide the motion by planting his hands on his hips.

Dean sucks in a breath and tries to sit up straighter, but his wasted body just won't comply. He falls back, injured shoulder striking the headboard, and stars pop in his field of vision. He swallows back his instinctive cry of pain, blinking roughly until the spots clear. "Yes, Sam," he grits. "I get that, but – "

"No." Sam raises his hand, concern and anger warring for precedence in his tone and features. "There's no _but_ , man. Things go to purgatory for a _reason_ , Dean."

"Like me?" Dean asks, low and steady and before he can stop himself.

"Jesus _Christ_ , Dean, that's not what I'm saying." His brother shoves both hands through his hair, tension straightening his posture. "But this – this is a…a…" Sam sends a loud through his flaring nostrils as he drops his hands to slap against his thighs. "A what, Dean?"

"I told you. A friend."

Sam makes a frustrated noise and turns away, muttering under his breath. _Son of a bitch_ and _unbelievable_ and something else Dean doesn't quite catch. He turns back, locking eyes with his brother.

Frustration has a tendency to turn to violence in the Winchester family, and Dean can't be sure his brother isn't thinking about slugging him in the wake of what he's revealed. He's felt the same fire he can see building in Sam's eyes now, has thrown a few punches the kid's way and taken motel rooms like this down to studs.

They stay that way a long moment, just staring at each other; Sam exhausted and stressed and flirting with his breaking point, Dean hurting in more places than he has the energy or capacity to identify. They've both been through Hell and they've both been on their own and they were both raised by the most stubborn son of a bitch there ever was. They can do this standoff thing for a while.

Surprisingly, or maybe just taking pity on his brother, Sam breaks first. He sighs, rubs a hand over his eyes. "I think we both just need to get some sleep. We can figure out…everything else, tomorrow."

Dean lifts a reflexive, noncommittal shoulder in response, wincing at the pull across his back. "Yeah," he agrees in a tight, choked voice.

His brother nods, stomps away without another word and shuts himself in the small bathroom.

Dean's not exactly sure how long Sam's in there, drifts off waiting for him to come back out, sweaty temple tipped against the headboard. He snaps awake to his brother hovering inches in front of his face, armed with a glass of cloudy water and tugging in a mostly gently manner on his unbandaged arm.

Sam makes Dean drink as much of the water as he can, then helps him get settled as comfortable as possible on his stomach. "Come on, man," he grumbles. "You can't sleep like this. Lie back down."

His brother pats him once on his uninjured shoulder, then turns out the lights and drops back into the chair with the extra blanket and a sigh. It's then that Dean remembers there isn't anywhere else in the room for his brother to sleep.

His heavy eyes are falling closed when something large and loud blows past the motel room – a low, whining growl of an engine and a blast of a horn – and he jerks, sucks in a harsh breath.

"S'just a truck, man," Sam says softly from across the room.

"Yeah, I know." Or _knew_ , but Dean can't put enough strength behind the words to be convincing. His heart is thundering and he can't catch his breath, knows each wheezing exhale is much too loud in the small room.

His surprised jerk has sent a ripple of white-hot agony through the wounds on his back. If the cuts are clean and healed enough in the morning, Sam will stitch them, and Dean will be left with a trio of thick, puckered scars to remember the hound by. To partner all of the less visible scars he'll have to remember the rest of his tour.

And then after that…

As if on cue, the impatient knob writhing within Dean's arm pulses and burns, and he hisses. _Give it a rest already,_ he pleads, making a fist and digging his cheek into the pillow.

"Does it hurt?"

His brother could be talking about the infected wounds, the fiery soul trapped inside of him, or being back topside. But mostly, Dean knows that no matter how mad Sammy might be, this quiet, calm tone just means _I'm here_. Like he's terrified Dean might forget. Like Dean might've gotten used to him not being around.

It tugs at things he'd forgotten he could feel. "Yeah," he replies in a hoarse whisper, thinking _all of the above._

"Dean?"

"Hmm."

"What…what happened to Cas?"

 _Why did you bring back whatever the hell's burning a hole through your arm and not Cas?_ he means.

Dean closes his eyes and he's back there, feeling the undeniable pull of the swirling portal behind him, channeling what's left of his waning strength to keep ahold of the angel.

"Dean?"

He hears a frantic, echoing call on the heels of his brother's prompt: _Dean!_ And then Cas slipping through his fingers, falling away. "I tried so damn hard to get us the hell out of there," he whispers.

"What happened, Dean?"

He opens his eyes, forces the images away. "I could've pulled 'im out. I just…"

Sam shifts, a subtle swish of his jeans against the fabric seat of the chair. "Dean, you're my brother…and I know you, man. I know you did everything you could."

"Then why do I feel like crap?"

Sam huffs. "Well, you've been pretty damn sick, for starters. Beyond that…survivor's guilt," Sam offers, soft and simple. Like it's just that easy. "If you wanna talk about it…"

"I don't," Dean says quickly, thickly. Whatever his brother had slipped him in that glass is already working, making the pain distant, and everything else, too. His eyes fall closed again, and there's nothing but black on the other side.

"Okay," Sam returns, in almost a whisper. Another sigh, another soft swish as his brother attempts to find a comfortable position in an uncomfortable chair. "Get some sleep, man."

* * *

 _To be continued..._

* * *

 _Author Note: I have the plan for the remaining chapters figured out, but I'm not quite sure if that means there will be two or four left. It's one of those, though. Thanks to all continuing to read! :)_


	6. Chapter 6

**The Yellowed Wood**

 _Chapter Six_

* * *

He doesn't sleep well, but it's not owing to the awkward arrangements. Not entirely, anyway. It's somewhere between the fourth and eleventh time that Sam startles awake from a light, unsatisfying and dream-plagued doze, already sitting mostly upright, that he surrenders any hope of rest to his relentlessly racing mind. His neck and shoulders are stiff and his lower back aches fiercely, but he's having a hard time focusing on his own pain at the moment.

He shoves the thin blanket to the floor and rubs at the back of his sore neck, lifts his chin toward the window. Through the gap in the curtains, it looks like it might be dawn, and his brother sleeps on, blessedly silent and still as a stone.

Sam swallows and scoots his makeshift bed closer to the real one. An inch at a time and as quietly as possible, because he's gotten a feel for just how skittish and aggressive this stint in purgatory may have made his brother. And if he starts to forget, there's an itchy, healing cut near his Adam's apple that'll be quick to remind him for another couple of days, and a wounded darkness in Dean's eyes that looks to linger for quite a bit longer.

He reaches out with a slow, wary hand to find that his brother's temperature has thankfully cooled to something approaching normal, but it's discouraging that he's able to get close enough to check without Dean popping up and sleepily swinging at him. Sam takes what advantage he can, picking carefully at the curled edges of medical tape to peel up a corner of the bandage covering the slashed shoulder blade and satisfy himself that the infection is kicked. Still, the wounds are deep, and could benefit from some additional attention to keep from scarring any more than is already unavoidable. Dean won't be happy, but Sam would rather not add to the collection of lasting damage he's already found all over the man. The bruises will fade and he'll get the weight back, but he's covered in gouges and tears and scrapes – a goddamned _year's_ worth.

 _More_ , Sam remembers. Sixteen months. Seventy-two weeks.

Five hundred and seven unbearably long days.

He'd spent a lot of that time hoping that wherever Dean was, he wasn't alone, that he had Castiel with him. When he found out the horrifying truth that his brother was in purgatory, hope became a desperate plea that the angel was at Dean's side, because purgatory wasn't meant to house humans, and humans weren't meant to withstand purgatory. It doesn't seem to have done either of them any good. Cas is gone, and Dean…well, he's here, at least. And that's a start.

Sam has mourned his friend in stages, a few minutes here and there since his brother first revealed that the angel hadn't made it. But Dean did, and Sam can't help the wash of gratitude he feels, knowing that's what matters. It's not without baggage, though.

The idea of this _thing_ being inside his brother pings each and every one of Sam's internal radars and trips every switch he's got, leaves him feeling tense and tight and ready to snap. His big brother is a natural hunter and has great instincts, and he's smarter than any of them have ever given him credit for; too smart to have done _this._

He was threatened, Sam thinks, struggling to make sense of a situation of which he knows pathetically little. Forced into this. Made a deal to save himself and Cas, to get them out, and whatever this son of a bitch is – it's _evil_ , without question, and it betrayed Dean.

His brother begins to stir under his hand, and Sam quickly pulls it away, taking care to announce himself before he winds up with an elbow in the throat. "Hey, man. Morning. How ya feel?"

"Mm," Dean groans in return, without opening his eyes. He sounds as pained and miserable as Sam expected, but the noise also carries the characteristic grumpiness of a man who's never been much of a morning person.

It's almost enough to warm Sam's heart, hearing his brother sound so much like himself, in just a single grunt.

Dean makes a face and rolls his head against his pillow, lifts his hand and waves it in an uncoordinated swat at Sam.

He obliges, sitting back in his chair. "Cuts look good," he comments, lifting an eyebrow. "Or, better, anyway. You stay still and let me close up some of these deeper spots and I might even give you coffee."

His brother cracks open an eye and narrows his drowsy gaze suspiciously. He stares at Sam but doesn't put his doubt into words, because he doesn't have to.

Sam bobs his head. "I'm still not happy about…any of this. Okay? But, I dunno." He sighs, rubs once more at the twinge in his neck. Saying he's _not happy_ is doing a terrible disservice to his hunter's instinct, not to mention the fiery influx of emotion twisting his chest as he thinks about some _monster_ hitching a ride out of purgatory inside his brother.

Dean doesn't launch an argument, but he does make a move to push himself upright, which draws forth another grunt, and this one's all pain. He bites his lip as the color drains from his face, but Sam stays put and lets his brother work excruciatingly slowly to get himself situated into a mostly seated position, knowing from a lifetime of experience that his help will be less appreciated as Dean grows more lucid.

Exhausted by the transition, Dean lays his sweaty head back and breaths deeply, noisily. His myriad bruises have yellowed, the damage less visible, but no less real.

Sam's eyes are drawn down to his brother's bandaged left arm where it's folded limply across his middle. An odd glow shifts and pulses beneath the loosely wrapped gauze, and Dean winces as it moves, makes a fist.

Whatever Sam thinks, whatever he _feels_ and whatever this _is_ , it has to come out of Dean, as soon as possible and no matter what it takes. No matter what nonsensical bullshit he has to swallow to make it happen. But he'll be damned before he makes friends with the thing his brother broke out of purgatory and has been keeping alive while he's struggled through injury and infection. He's not even yet sure he'll let it draw a single breath, but can do what Dean needs to purge the monster. Anything to strip away another layer of pain, a task he fears is going to be a full-time job for the foreseeable future.

"Whiskey," Dean rasps suddenly, and clears his throat.

"What?"

"Not coffee." His brother's expression is pinched but his eyes are bright, borderline mischievous. "I want whiskey."

Sam cocks his head. "Um, no?"

"You want me to feel better, don't you?"

His eyes slide to the side, to where an orange-ish halo of sunlight is just thinking about peeking through the curtains. "Dude, it's like, six in the morning."

"Were you always such a buzzkill?" Dean's voice is a little hoarse, but he's almost smirking.

Sam huffs. "Yeah. Yeah, you've mentioned that a few times." His gaze drops to the glass on the bedside table, and the small pile of antibiotics and aspirin he's been dosing Dean with the past couple of days. "How about we start with water? Got a, uh…a long day ahead." And that's not even taking into account the stitches he's got planned.

Dean frowns, shifts a bit in bed. His frown quickly becomes a grimace, a hiss, as the motion reignites pain all over his body. "Long day?"

Sam gestures at his brother's arm. "You said we had to go to Louisiana, right? That's a two-day drive at least."

His brother seems surprised, eyebrows high on his pale face. "We're going?"

"Well, I'm not just gonna let you sit there with that…thing in you."

"Benny," Dean says, chin jutted. "And can you stop saying he's _in_ me?"

"Whatever." Sam sits back in his chair, wrinkles his nose and sniffs dramatically. "You'd better hit the shower. You know, if you think you can stand up for that long."

Dean rolls his eyes but predictably rises to the challenge, albeit a hell of a lot quicker than he rises from the bed. He makes it upright in stages: legs over the edge, feet on the floor, levering up with a shove off of the mattress, with long pauses and loud breaths between each one.

Sam takes in his brother's thin frame and pale complexion, the way he's shaky and wheezing and leaning on the wall just to remain on his feet. Dean's no longer sick but he still doesn't look well. Good. _Right_. He's far too skinny and his face is wind and sunburned, and even without the dangerously high fever, he's wracked with shivers. It takes him forever to cross the room to the bathroom, and Sam pretends not to notice.

While Dean's in the shower, Sam sets out the stitch kit on the table, then goes to work preparing the motel room for their departure. There isn't much to go through, as he's already used his brother's long bouts of fitful, fevered sleep to take inventory of Dean's meager, stolen supplies.

What was actually Dean's is well beyond saving, and everything else came from the swiped hiker's pack; the cell phone and charger, wallet and travel-sized first aid kit. Sam feels a pang of guilt as he moves the cash from the wallet into his own, but it's not like he's going to have an opportunity to return it. There are a couple of outfits from the pack that are close enough to Dean's taste, but he can't honestly figure his brother will want to keep any of the items.

The leather jacket had been an impulse buy, and the single most expensive thing he'd ever seen his frugal, sticky-fingered brother actually shell out cash for, over a weekend where Dean had just enough whiskey to remember how badly he was still missing their father. Sam found it in in a slashed, blood and sweat-soaked heap on the bathroom linoleum on his first circuit of the small room, its marks and stains telling a Cliff-Notes version of what Dean had lived through. The damage inflicted, the violence. The boots'll have to make do for now, the right one likely to remain unlaced around Dean's injured ankle for the next couple of days.

Then there are the weapons. A cheap Marine knife and a switchblade, and that odd, frightening blade he'd first held to Sam's throat, which looks to have been crafted from a thick, sturdy branch and the sharp end of a fractured bone. His brother's Colt 1911 had been on the floor near the bathroom, filthy and bloody and emptied of bullets. Sam has already cleaned the gun and reloaded it with a spare clip from the trunk, and it's waiting for Dean on the table, gleaming at the end of a dusty beam of morning sunlight. He refuses to keep the grotesque, makeshift machete, and the cheap knives were handy in a pinch but have no place in their weapons cache.

Sam hopes to hear the full story, someday, but he won't push. He knows better than to hope for anything more than listlessly dropped anecdotes over drinks in a dark, smoky bar. They've been here before, in a manner of speaking. This isn't the first time he's dug into his own duffel to find an acceptable change of clothes for his waxy, traumatized big brother.

But Dean's the one with the unsavory friendship now, and in retrospect, Sam can't help but think that his brother actually held his cool remarkably well.

The blue plaid shirt he'd been wearing is thick enough, but Dean's going to need more when they hit the road. It's chilly outside – morning in September in Maine – and Sam's brother doesn't have nearly enough meat on his bones to compensate for the lack of a good coat. Sam will be able to outfit the man with all of the clothes and personal possessions he'd left behind once they meet up with Kevin at Rufus's cabin.

After.

Sam pulls out a thick flannel and a warm hoodie, leaves the items at the foot of the bed for Dean to find. Then he takes the trash – and all of the visible evidence of his brother's lost months – out to the dumpster.

* * *

Dean's wounded and weak but he doesn't need to be coddled. Even so, Sam can't help himself, hops off of the curb and makes his way automatically to the passenger side of the Impala. He swings open the door for his brother before he realizes Dean hasn't followed him, and he turns back with a frown.

He's standing on the sidewalk, squinting in the sunlight looking just as swallowed by his little brother's Carhartt as he does by the emotions contorting his features as he stares down at the Impala.

"Dean?"

Dean blinks, lifts his chin and limps forward to step carefully off of the curb, his hair ruffled by a chilly, early autumn breeze. He reaches out, lays the flat of his palm against the wide hood of the car, and a smile stretches across his pale face.

For the first time since the door to the motel room was flung open, Dean looks like DEAN.

"Hey, baby," he says softly. He seems to feel Sam's eyes on him, raises his gaze and swallows, drawing his hand back and stuffing it into his pocket. "Well, no visible signs of douchery – I'll give you that."

Sam rolls his eyes, taps his fingers where he's gripping the top of the door. "Get in." It almost feels like things are the way they should be, except for the whole monster-soul problem.

Between the bruises and the cuts and the stitches, Dean can't stop fidgeting, can't seem to get comfortable on the bench. He doesn't say anything, just curls around his left arm, constantly and miserably kneading at the limb, and Sam knows his brother is hurting. Thinking.

 _Remembering._

For all his good intentions, they aren't across the state line before Sam's no longer able to bite his tongue. He can't wait for those anecdotes slipping loose over drinks; he needs to know right now that his brother is going to be okay. "What exactly, you know, happened? With, uh, that?" _With everything._

Dean blows out an uncomfortable, frustrated breath and tucks his freshly stitched shoulder into the corner, drawing farther away from his brother. "I said I didn't want to talk about it," he sends through clenched teeth.

"I know you did."

"Then why does it sound like we're about to talk about it?" Dean snaps.

"Because you _need_ to talk about it, Dean." Sam tightens his grip around the steering wheel. "Keeping something like this to yourself…it'll kill you, man." He knows what he's talking about; they've been around the block enough times to have some experience in this sort of thing.

"I'm fine."

Sam spends the next few miles watching out of the corner of his eye as Dean continues to tick and twitch and wince, but he doesn't rub at his arm again, and keeps his gaze directed pointedly out of the windshield.

"You're stubborn," he finally returns in a low voice. "You're bull-headed, and you're a stupid son of a bitch." Sam sighs, sticks his left elbow on the car door and rubs at his forehead. "You're not _fine_."

* * *

 _To be continued...possibly concluded..._


	7. Chapter 7

_Author Notes at end._

* * *

 **The Yellowed Wood**

 _Chapter Seven_

* * *

Dean sleeps most of the way to Clayton, lulled easily into stretches of warm oblivion by the steady, throaty purr of the Impala's engine and the security of his brother at his side. He feels _safe_ , for the first time in a long time, and it's almost like purgatory never happened. Almost. He's bone-weary and sore all over, nagging pains from injuries lingering throughout his battered body. When they stop for the night he falls easily onto the soft motel mattress and even easier into a deep and surprisingly dreamless sleep, but he knows this part won't last. This is just the exhaustion, just his mind and body needing rest to acclimate to this place and time. Once he's found his footing here and his mind starts to wander and poke at those things in the shadows, the dreams will come. He's been on the run for more than a year, but he won't be able to run far or fast enough to escape some of the nightmare things still giving chase from the dark corners of his subconscious.

Sam wakes him regularly, a gentle, wary jostle of his leg or shoulder. Sometimes to eat or drink something, or take some meds when Dean can't keep the pain from his face. Sometimes to stretch his legs, and sometimes because the kid just seems so damn happy to _see him_. Sometimes it's to pry for information, in his subtle Sam way. His brother is equal parts curious and concerned, and owed a few explanations, so Dean concedes to let a few things out.

Yes, it was hot in purgatory, and he got used to the heat, and that's why he's bundled in a sweatshirt and still shivering on a mild sixty-degree day. Hot as Hell, he jokes, but Sammy doesn't seem to appreciate it.

No, he won't say what kind of monster Benny is; Sam's just going to have to trust that he's a friend.

Yes, actually, he's _starving_ and would kill for a beer, if his majesty will allow it.

No, he's not ready to talk about what happened with Cas.

Sam returns the favor – confirms that he has all of his brother's clothes and cassettes and favorite knives still in his possession and while Dean can have a beer with lunch, no, he can't drive the next stretch. Not yet.

And that's probably fair, because Dean can't stay awake for more than twenty minutes at a time and his hands still have a faint tremble. But he's getting better. Stronger, in every way. When they're reloading gear into the trunk of the Impala on the second morning, he doesn't jump at the blast of a train horn sounding off a block away, or the Golden Retriever that yips at them as it passes on a leash.

He naps in the passenger seat until lunchtime, and they converse easily through the afternoon, making up for lost time. But nothing of the horrors of purgatory or whatever darkness Sam may have flirted with while his big brother wasn't there to hold him back from the ledge.

They're just…being brothers.

The sun is setting as they arrive in Clayton and skirt the edge of town, and they fall quiet the last few miles. A tense, ominous silence, because neither man really knows what's going to happen here, or even what he _wants_ to happen. And it's been a good day but there's just no two ways about it – Sam is gonna _flip_.

Dean pictures a set of sharp teeth tearing through the fleshly underside of his forearm as Benny's soul breaks free, an image he can't shake out of his head as another lance of heat rips through the limb, which has been achy in a manageable way through the past couple of days. Now, the pain doesn't recede in the slightest, but pulses in tandem with a building throb in his temples as Sam eases the Impala to a slow stop at the end of an uneven gravel road.

The car's wideset headlights illuminate a rotting wooden gate bookended by thick, pockmarked stone pillars. A sign on one is carved with the name 'Lafitte.'

"This's it?"

Dean nods, teeth clenched against the pain spiking in agreement. He covers the spot with his right hand. "Yeah."

Jaw set, Sam bobs his head. "Okay." He leans over the steering wheel, squinting at the padlocked gate. "Looks like we're hoofing it the rest of the way." He throws the car into 'park' and cuts the ignition, turns to Dean, eyes wide in a pale face. "You gonna make it?"

Dean figures that means this spike of hot agony must have him looking like exactly as much shit as he feels. He forces his fingers to unwrap from around his aching arm. "I'm good." He squeezes his left hand into a fist and shoves open the door with a _creak_. "Let's just get this over with."

A task that's easier said than done. He doesn't know whether it's the close proximity to the son of a bitch's bones or just how damn _long_ this has gone on, but the pain's dug in deep and won't let up, and a sharp, white-hot stab sends Dean staggering as he meets his brother at the trunk of the car. He clings tightly to the open lid with his right hand, head ducked and breathing tightly.

"Hey. Dean."

Sam's hand is warm and not unwelcome on his shoulder, but Dean shrugs him off anyway. "I'm good."

"No, you're not. Not yet." Face set, Sam pockets a flashlight and drags the shovel free before straightening.

Dean follows suit, snagging a second flashlight and a short knife from the pile of blades before his brother slams the trunk closed.

Sam notices, but doesn't comment, just gestures for Dean to lead the way.

The pain in his arm intensifies as they traverse the abandoned property, sending Dean stumbling all the way to his knees just as his flashlight beam lands on the windmill at the back of the lot. His bad ankle isn't a fan of the fall, and he needs Sam to help him back to his feet. His brother claps him on the back and propels him forward once more, clearly wanting to get this over with.

Sam's posture remains tense, his arms crossed as he watches Dean pace off six steps from the western base of the creaky, crumbling windmill.

"This better be you, you son of a bitch." He looks up at his brother and motions for the shovel.

"I got it." Sam steps forward, stabs the ground with the wide blade. "Here?" Impatience seems to be the theme of the evening, because he doesn't wait for a response before tossing aside the first shovelful of dirt.

"Yeah," Dean chokes out anyway, kneading his arm as a violent agreement sings out from the spot. "Hold on, you bastard," he hisses, folding over. "Hold on."

Sam pauses in his furious digging, raises wide eyes. "You okay?"

 _Oh, if I had a nickel…_ But he can't deny that it feels _nice_ , his brother's concern. "I'm fine," Dean snaps. He waves a hand. "Keep goin.'"

It's a shallow grave, but Sam still makes good time uncovering the pile of bones. Chest heaving, he tosses the shovel aside and wipes the back of his wrist across his forehead, leaving behind a smear of dirt. "Now what?"

Dean steps up to the edge of the hole and winces as he pulls the short blade from an inside pocket of his jacket. He drags up his sleeve and positions the knife over the glowing, pulsing knot in his forearm.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Sam moves forward quickly to lock his fingers in a steel grip around Dean's wrist. "What the hell are you doing?"

He quirks an eyebrow. "What, you think I'm just supposed to shake my arm over the bones until he _falls_ out?"

His brother's fingers tighten, desperate and frustrated. "Until _who_ falls out, Dean? _What?_ "

There's no way Sammy – a lifelong hunter and too smart for his own good – hasn't noticed the detached skull in the pile of bones at their feet. Even so, Dean knows this is his last chance to fess up, to soften the blow before shit hits the fan. Instead, he averts his eyes and draws the knife across his skin, the sharp blade leaving a trail of heat in its wake. He grimaces and tosses the knife to the ground, extends his bleeding arm over the grave.

Sam tilts his head, watching with a fair amount of inherent fascination as glowing drops of blood – and _soul_ – slip from the cut and _hiss_ against the exposed bones.

" _Anima corpori…fuerit corpus…totem resurgent."_ Dean looks up, watches his brother's eyes narrow and brows dance as Sam works on the translation.

A light envelopes the bones and flares up out of the grave, causing them both to wince away. A sudden flash of heat tears through Dean, like he's trapped in a cyclone of fire and ash, and he drops to his knees with a shout.

He thinks he can hear Sam calling his name over the din – over the ringing in his ears and the blood pounding in his head. Then it all fades as quickly as it came, the noise and the light and the heat, and Dean curls against the ground, struggling to catch his breath. The pain's still there, in the deep cut on his arm, and _fuck_ , yeah – that smarts a bit. There's cold, loose dirt shifting between his fingers, a chill seeping in through the denim of his jeans. His brother's grip is unmistakable, large hands under his arms, but Sam eyes are raised, narrowed at something over Dean's head.

At _someone_. At Benny.

Dean sucks in a sharp breath and brushes his brother's hands away, drawing forth what strength and steadiness he can and feigning annoyance.

Sam's on his feet in a flash, legs set wide in a wary, offensive stance.

"Wow," Dean says, addressing the vampire as he shakily works his way upright next to his brother. "That was fast."

A smirk crosses Benny's face. "No thanks to you. The hell took you so long?"

Sam's eyes dart back and forth between the two, and Dean feels like they're all standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting each other out.

"You're welcome," Dean returns, rolling his eyes. His heart is racing and his chest is tight, but he works to keep his tone relaxed, in an effort to set his brother at ease. He drags a bandana from his back pocket and winds it tightly around his bleeding arm. "Everything working?"

Benny cocks his head, taking note of Sam's presence as he brushes a bit of dirt from the sleeve of his jacket. "Good enough." He grins then, wide, moonlight dancing off of his teeth. "We made it, brother. I can't believe it."

Dean shifts his weight uneasily, eyes moving to Sam, who can't be expected to take Benny's words well. "You and me both."

His brother looks ready to fight, nostrils flaring and fingers twitching where they hang at his side.

Benny finally locks eyes with Sam, jerks his chin. "Who's this?"

"My brother," Dean says simply.

"The hunter." Benny turns, addresses Sam. "What's he told you?"

"Enough." All of a sudden there's a wicked-sharp machete in his brother's hand, because Sammy's _good_. Dean hadn't even seen him grab it at the trunk. "What's he told _you_?"

Benny doesn't get the teeth out, but he does lift his chin in challenge. "Enough."

"All right," Dean says firmly. "Put 'em away, both of you."

Benny holds his hands up, eyes shining. "I don't drink people, kid."

"Yeah?" Sam raises his eyebrows, leans forward. "Well, I don't trust vampires."

" _I_ trust him, Sam," Dean snaps, sliding between the two as gracefully as he can without falling on his face.

Sam whirls on him, unquestionably _pissed_. "A vampire, Dean?"

 _You weren't there_ , is on the tip of his tongue, but it won't do any good. That's never been a good enough argument, not with Sammy. "Remember Lenore?" he asks instead.

"I remember even she turned, eventually."

"Right, but – "

"D'you two need me for this part?" Benny asks, eyebrows high on his forehead.

Sam spins, lifting the long blade like he just might do something with it. "Shut up."

Dean reaches out, smacks at his brother's arm. "Will you put that thing away already? Dammit, Sam, the guy saved my life."

Sam drops his arm a fraction and chews his lip. After a tense, standoff-ish moment, he lowers the machete to his side, and his expression softens. But the wariness doesn't fade, not completely. "Okay." He sheaths the blade, extends his hand instead. "Then…thanks."

Benny rocks back on his heels, with plenty of good reason to be suspicious, but he reaches out to give Sam's hand a quick pump. "You bet." He turns to Dean, but keeps one eye pinned on his brother. "So…what now?"

Dean lifts a shoulder. "Like we talked about, I guess."

"Then this is goodbye."

He nods. "You keep your nose clean, Benny. You hear me?"

Benny turns to Sam, ducks his chin. "Take care of your brother."

"I will," Sam returns firmly. _Don't worry about Dean_ , he means.

Dean wants to be annoyed, but it feels _damn_ good, knowing Sammy's got his back again.

* * *

Sam doesn't start the car, not right away. He sits, still as a statue, all except the fingers of his right hand, tapping out an anxious, beatless rhythm against the steering wheel.

"What?" Dean braves.

"Are we – " Sam pauses, purses his lips. He doesn't look over. "What happens now, Dean? Are we gonna see Benny again?"

"We'll keep an ear to the ground." Dean nods, squinting out the windshield into the night. "And if Benny goes off the reservation…"

Now Sam turns, pins him with a serious, daring gaze. "What?"

Dean lifts a shoulder. "We'll take care of it."

They sit that way a long moment, silent and brooding, then without warning, Sam grabs Dean's arm. With a hiss, he carefully peels away the blood-soaked bandana. "You cut pretty deep."

Dean grunts as his brother prods the spot. "Had to."

"Yeah." But Sam makes a face, like he's still not convinced any of this is something Dean HAD to do. He rewraps the cut and allows Dean to reclaim the bleeding arm into his own possession. "Keep pressure on that," he says with a sigh. "I'll take another look when we find somewhere to stop for the night." He turns the key in the ignition, shooting Dean one last sideways glance before shifting the car into 'reverse.' He raises his eyebrows expectantly.

Dean rolls his eyes and complies, clamps his right hand over the spot. A sudden wash of weariness falls over him, and he lays his head back against the seat, lets his eyes fall closed, and just listens to his baby purr. He's got some bumps and bruises still to fade, but the most of what he brought back with him – the _worst_ of it – is gone now.

"Hey, Sam," he says, just before he drifts off.

"Yeah."

"Thanks."

Sam sucks in an audible breath but doesn't respond right away, and Dean resists the urge to crack open an eye and sneak a peek at his brother, to gauge his _real_ reaction. He doesn't need to, because Sammy already came through, big time. Already trusted Dean when every instinct and every hard-learned lesson told him that he shouldn't.

"Yeah," Sam says finally. It's not exactly the Gettysburg Address, but it still means something to hear it.

They drive awhile in companionable silence, the car moving a bit jerkily under the guidance of his brother's hand.

"Sam."

"Hmm?"

Dean lifts his lip in a lazy grin. "Tomorrow, I'm driving."

Sam snorts. "We'll worry about tomorrow, tomorrow. Get some rest, Dean."

Dean barely hears him, because he's already halfway there.

* * *

He wakes violently, with a start that falls somewhere between disorientation and panic, and he's through enough to know immediately that something isn't right. His head is pounding and he's nauseated, weak and shaky, though it feels like he's been asleep awhile.

" – am?" he calls, a painful croak that gets caught in his horribly dry throat.

There's no answer, and the surrounding darkness carries a specific sort of silence that Dean's come to associate with solitude. He's alone, and that realization does nothing good for the disorientation _or_ the panic. He doesn't remember getting out of the car, or where the hell his brother went. "Sammy?"

Still nothing. In hopes of gaining a better vantage point, Dean rolls to his back. Tries to, anyway, but a furnace blast of pain rips through his shoulder blades and steals his vision, has him giving up on the idea rather quickly. Breathing hard, he lies still, and takes stock.

It's dark and quiet, and he's lying face-down on a surface made of both hard and soft layers. _Floor_. The air is thick and stale, smelling of sweat and sickness. It takes a moment to come to him, then Dean hazily realizes, _motel room_. It doesn't make a lick of sense, but here he is, tangled up on his side in a musty blanket with short, grimy carpet bristles sticking to his flushed cheek.

The muscles in his left arm spasm, and a fierce, hot pain rages. He reflexively reaches across his body to knead at the spot, mind reeling. His brother had tried to cover his frustration with worry, but Sam had been PISSED over what Dean had done, smuggling the vampire out of purgatory, and if something of Benny has been inadvertently left behind…

He shifts stiff limbs and moves to shove himself upright, once more stopping short as pain explodes in his back and chest and leg, and fireworks go off behind his eyes. He collapses back against the floor with a hiss, his fevered blood running cold.

" _Sam_ ," he all but shouts, pain and frustration – and maybe the tiniest bit of fear – lending volume to his call.

But Sam's not here.

Dean grits his teeth and reaches up with his right arm, igniting a _fire_ in his shoulder. _Son of a BITCH_. He feels out the bed behind him, hooks his elbow on the edge of the mattress and drags himself to his knees. The movement leaves hot tears of pain stinging his eyes, and he blinks furiously, trying to bring the dim room into focus.

The curtains are drawn and the floor around him is littered with items, and Dean frowns at the sight, because Sam is traditionally tidy – annoyingly so. There's a crumpled piece of paper near his feet and he squints until he can make out the largest lettering – the map of Baxter State Park. Why the _hell_ would Sammy bring that trash into the room?

His heart pounds almost painfully and the wound across his shoulder blade throbs mercilessly, and bile climbs his throat. Infection's not quite as kicked as they'd thought. He just needs another dose of whatever pills his fussy brother has been pushing on him. He'll be fine.

Even as the thought crosses his mind, Dean can feel how forced it is. How desperate. And _fuck_ if he doesn't just want to know where Sammy is.

He tries to use his position against the mattress to leverage his uncooperative body all the way upright, and one of his scrabbling feet connects with something on the floor, sends it skittering across the carpet to collide with a _thud_ against the wall.

Dean squints at the small shape until it comes into focus. A cell phone. _Sammy_.

He heaves himself across the small room in the direction of the phone. His bad ankle buckles on the first step and pitches him forward, and he gets an elbow up in time to slam it down on the narrow windowsill with a bone-shuddering impact. The shockwave climbs Dean's arm and rips through his shoulder, wrings a hoarse shout from between his lips.

Panting, he grits his teeth and moves the curtain aside with the back of his hand. Outside, the sky is overcast, and the curb in front of the room is empty. No Impala.

No SAM.

He knows it then, in his gut, but pushes the truth aside and clings to hope like a lifesaver.

Sam went out for more medicine, or food. Porn.

And he'll be _right back._

Dean drops his hand from the curtain and his elbow from the sill, slides ungracefully to a heap against the baseboard. He lays his aching head back and feels out the plastic casing of the phone, drags it into his lap.

 _Sammy's not here._

He's almost too afraid to make the call, doesn't know why his brother's number is showing up in red in the call log.

Dean holds his sweaty thumb down against the screen, and brings the phone to his ear with a horribly shaking hand.

" _The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service. Please check the number and – "_

Dean disconnects the call and stares down at the traitorous device, his heart thumping too hard and too fast. He shakes his head like he's got water stuck in his ears and denial lodged in his chest, and hits redial.

" _The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service. Please check the number and dial again."_

* * *

 _End_

* * *

 _I feel like I might owe some of you - okay, all of you - an explanation for what's just happened. When I started working on this fic, almost a year ago, it was meant to be a peek of missing scenes for the missing four days that are skipped over in the opening of the season 8 premiere. It wasn't working, in my brain or on the page, until my genius muse's muse said "try it this way." And I finished what would become only the first chapter that very day. And I was poked and prodded along, by the muse, the muse's muse, and by you readers, to see how the story might continue in this AU. And around Chapter 4, I started to realize that I didn't have an endgame, or any idea where this thing was going to maybe go after the Benny scene, and I wasn't entirely on board with taking on another long, open-ended WIP fic while I have "Be All Our Sins Remember'd" developing abandonment issues on my computer. And this horrible, rottenly MEAN idea came to me in a shower epiphany - to make the entire AU portion of the story be a fever dream of Dean's. And then I couldn't NOT do it. I know it was awful - I KNOW it was. And I'm sorry. Mostly. It presented a way to venture into what-might-have-been while also respecting canon, while providing more than one twist. I hope you enjoyed this fic. Thanks for reading!_


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